


ripped at every edge, but you're a masterpiece

by extremiss



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Artists RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drabble, M/M, Not sure if angst, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 10:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5865430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extremiss/pseuds/extremiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His eyes are slightly red and his smile almost crooked when he opens his mouth to speak again. "With you, blood and sex have the edge over ambition."</p>
            </blockquote>





	ripped at every edge, but you're a masterpiece

Far too often does Paul find himself in a dangerous predicament such as this; a Vincent van Gogh flat with the override of emotions by his side, melancholy tendrils of smoke blowing past his lips and nose.

He looks dead like this, Paul thinks; so different from the view he sees during their shared Painting unit. So different from the undeniable vibrance his eyes would have. So different from how he'd normally see the sunlight sifted through flame orange hair. He is usually alive with the passionate movement of his arm, stroking bright impasto on blank canvas. So real. So alive.

But he isn't now; not like this. Not sheathed in the darkness. Not soaked to the bone, and fragile and looking like the faintest touch could tear him apart. His face is devoid of any sort of feeling, a result of the over saturation of far too many of them at once— and Paul aches at the sight.

He is beginning to think Vincent is a concept. A construct. That Vincent only exists as a mere idea; that neither the person with the yellow pigment on his hands, or the person with the ash on his hands are real. Vincent is not a character, but a story.

Vincent speaks in riddles and epics and sad songs. The words he pours into his paintings as images become a whisper echoing in dimly lit corridors and rising in the cannabis-laced essence in the air.  

"You know, Paul," says Vincent, letting out a puff in Paul's face, on purpose or otherwise, to which Paul coughs. "you interest me greatly as a man."

If Paul hadn't known better, he would think Vincent was joking. But Paul _did_ know better, and Vincent was serious— _sincere._ Paul still laughs like he would have if it were a joke. 

It doesn't offend Vincent. His eyes are slightly red and his smile almost crooked when he opens his mouth to speak again. "With you, blood and sex have the edge over ambition."

The laughter hesitantly subsides into a look of amused incredulity on Paul's face, and he punctuates it with a roll of his eyes and a scoff. He shifts, a hand light on Vincent's knee— he is a mere whisper away, mirroring Vincent's smile. "You're so," Paul drawls quietly, eyes lidded, " _fucking_ pretentious."

A sudden jerk from Vincent and Paul swallows, retracting in a very small movement— he settles back on a dusty wall, wringing his own hands, leaving Vincent's space lacking warmth. Vincent had seemed to inch toward him at the last second, as if to kiss him, which he immediately decides against doing, and Paul feels odd relief that he doesn't.  

Vincent's eyes are glazed over, his breath quietly stuttering. He looks like a mess, and Paul is sure he looks the same, except Paul doesn't have the far-off, blank expression on his face, nor did he have chaos bubbling in his throat and simmering deep into his subconscious mind.

Maybe tonight Vincent will cry, and Paul won't be able to do anything about it except pass him the flask and later let his head onto his lap, as he brushes through mussed hair. He won't be able to lift the pain— he _never_ has, but he can stop the tears like he always did when Vincent cried, and that's something he's kind of good at: he can let Vincent's hands and lips wander, and he can forget all about it when they're sober. 

But now is a fleeting moment, and now is the time Paul lets himself succumb to Vincent's cold, calloused fingertips and forlorn, lovesick, broken little whispers. Only now does Paul's lips bruise; only now does his skin showcase blooming reds and purples and indents from neck to hip. The only payback he has now is perhaps the scratches on Vincent's back, and a shallow bite mark on Vincent's neck.  They both live precariously in the now; a trademark of reckless youth, muddled minds, and weak hearts.

However, Paul feels that he is afraid— 

afraid of the hurricane that loves him too intensely; 

and afraid of what destruction could happen from loving a storm back.

**Author's Note:**

> four things:  
> 1.) im sorry  
> 2.) some of this van gogh actually said omg  
> 3.) title is from a halsey song lol  
> 4.) im so sorry


End file.
